


ALL THE GLAMOUR AND THE TRAUMA, THE F*CKING MELODRAMA

by theadamantdaughter



Series: Sober II [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Blutara - Freeform, F/M, Zutara, an anthology of sorts, and these one shots are in no particular order, maybe smut later, modern grunge au with bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16984143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: the blue spirit, the painted lady, and a falling out of sorts...





	ALL THE GLAMOUR AND THE TRAUMA, THE F*CKING MELODRAMA

**Author's Note:**

> began with the anonymous prompt: “No. You buried your knife in my stomach, which means it’s mine now.”

That accursed Spirit.

Pain licks at her every nerve, seeks out the crevices of her body and brain and settles there, leaks into her fingertips even, like the blood leaching from her abdomen.

She curls her fingers in the metal grate of the fire escape, struggles to get her feet under her before that grotesque mask peeks over the roof’s ledge. She tries the window at her perch, finds it unlocked and opened after a considerable amount of exertion.

Katara crashes through it, halfway mindful of her red dress or wide-brimmed hat, and slams it shut behind her. She coaxes water from her breath to freeze the hinges.

That should hold him off.

Stumbling through the near black room into a deserted corridor  _—_  she has to keep moving, keep running  _—_  Katara braces herself with a hand on the wall.

Her vision’s blurry; her gasps are ragged from the agony it is to let her lungs expand. And the air is musty around her, the scent of iron and sweat faintly permeating the moldy stench of the abandoned living complex in which she’s become a refugee. It makes it all the more difficult to gather the oxygen she needs, makes her head dizzy.

“Shit.”

She gives in, stopping, slumping to her knees. The knife still protrudes from her abdomen, buried to its hilt of smooth ivory, and her fingers tremble as she feels around the wound’s edges.

“Fuck. Shit,” Katara curses again, but at least the wound is clean.

An easy in means an easy out. Now slick with blood, her hand wraps around the knife and she yanks it out in one neat motion. “Ah- _ah _—_  _” She covers the opening with her free hand, quick to staunch the flow and prepared to heal the damage, but the same window through which she came shatters in the near distance. A burst of flame licks into the hall, setting scattered papers and rotting wood alight.

That fucking cursed Spirit.

He’s been relentless in his hunt for her, all self-righteous in his determination to ‘defend the city.’ Like she’s the problem. All she’s done is annihilate a few corrupt officials, cause a handful more to piss themselves like dogs cowering in fear, and send a ripple of chaos through a foul government.

It’s not her fault the people rioted as a result. She simply began the shift; they rose and met her cause.  

And this imbecile is trying to stop it.

Why? Because, after a few months of joint vigilante work, he suddenly knows what’s best for her? For the whole of Republic City? Or… did she break his heart… is that it? She rolls her eyes.

Straightening with grit teeth, Katara tightens her grip on his knife and coats her free hand in a casing of ice. She turns on her heel, facing the direction of his thundering heartbeat, the hissed threats, the crackling as the fire around him builds with his heat.

“I’d like my knife back.” His approach is predatory; strides, lethal, like a panther stalking his meal. “It’s rather important to me.”

She laughs haughtily. “Your knife? You buried it in my stomach.”

“And?”

“It’s covered in my blood, which makes it mine, now.”

“So…” He practically purrs through his mask. Smoke curls through its contorted lips. “…when  _I’m_  covered in your blood, does that make me yours as well?”

Katara smiles at him, the pain ebbing away as lust for a new fight fills her veins. Her eyes flash, already victorious and vindictive.

“Oh, my love… You would enjoy that far too much.”


End file.
